


Thou Being Dead Art a God

by Sangreal



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Canon Amalgamation, Chupacabras, Inca Mythology, Jaguars, Llamas, M/M, Post-Canon, Sloooooow Burn, Worldbuilding, oh my!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:17:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sangreal/pseuds/Sangreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Computer is broken, temporary hiatus. Sorry Everyone!)</p><p>Jack had always gone south for the summer, but this time things were different.  Only a few short weeks ago he had become the brand spanking new Guardian of Fun.  He saved the world.  He was a hero.  He couldn't just leave Burgess without making sure his hard-won Believers were safe while he was gone.  So before departing, he decided to clear out the Boogeyman's Lair one more time, just to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First fic, bomb diggity!
> 
> Took a bit of Book Canon, a bit of Movie Canon, tossed it in a blender and read "American Gods" aloud to the glob monster while it percolated. Then put some Mesoamerican Folk sprinkles on top. (While heavily inspired by American Gods, this is strictly Guardian!Verse, no crossovers.)
> 
> Will be some language, some violence, some dark themes and some hanky panky as the story progresses but I don't (currently) think it'll be anything requiring Archive Warnings. 
> 
> Un-Beta'ed, because I am a noob. Let me know if I missed something in my proof reading. And if you're interested in getting a sneak peak of the next exciting installment, uh. I need a Beta! 
> 
> Titular Poem: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174559

* * *

 

 

 “ _It goes without saying that all of the people, living, dead, and otherwise, in this story are fictional or used in a fictional context. Only the gods are real_.”  
― Neil Gaiman, _American Gods_

 

* * *

 

  As the days grew longer and the nights grew shorter, it became harder and harder to recall the feeling of progress that had overwhelmed him only a month before. A great whirlwind of activity after three hundred years of stillness. Hardly a week, and he had been swept up, fought over, saved the world. And that was that. It was nearly June, and Jack Frost found himself, once again, alone.  
  
 Not in the oppressive ‘haven’t spoken to anyone in three-hundred years’ kind of way, but still. Alone. Jaimie believed that Jack Frost would be back with Winter, but not that he was here right now. Which didn’t do Jack much good _right now_ at all.    
  
 Though their numbers were few, the Nightmares remained. Without Pitch shepherding them, their night terrors were chaotic, explosive, but otherwise self containing. Sandy didn’t seem concerned. Children had nightmares. That’s part of growing up. It’s not so bad when there isn’t _actually_ anything in the shadows, even if they try to convince you there is.     
  
There were two weeks left in school, and most of the kids couldn’t be bothered with things that go bump in the night anyway. They were too busy planning their summer, too busy pissing off their teachers and writing passionate good byes in yearbooks like they wouldn’t be seeing each other EVER AGAIN, (that is, every waking moment-- until their collective mothers staged an intervention insisting they eat at their own table for once).    
  
Jack loved kids. Jack loved fun. Jack hated Summer. Because stupid Summer dangled the two things he cared about most right in his face, and then blew a big fat raspberry reminding him that it was none of his business, and to bug off. Literally. He had been chased off of a playground a few years ago by some indignant Changelings who didn’t want him stealing their gig.  
  
 Normally he would be making his way south by now, riding the prevailing winds that ushered in the change of seasons, Winter was weaker there, but better than the smothering weight of a Northern summer. But his skin itched, frostbite tingling up the back of his neck, urging him that there was more to be done here. That it wasn’t time yet.  
  
  Maybe it was Jamie keeping him here. The fact that for once in his life (he still couldn’t rationalize the images kept in those teeth being his. It’s like... he was still in the womb, not yet born. Dreams of a waking that didn’t exist yet.) he was acknowledged. Maybe he didn’t want to give that up.  
  
  He doubted it. It wasn't like Jaimie was exactly keen for a snow ball fight right now, and Jack was always itching to move. Wanderlust had gnawed at his heels and his heart for as long as he could remember, and the wild winds of the Santa Rosa Storm called his name.  
  
  But Jamie, Burgess, this beautiful, perfect place with muddy lawns and dandelions and god-awful ice cream trucks that played ‘Turkey in the Straw’ over and over and _overandover_ , all of that was contentedly wasting the first weeks of Summer totally oblivious to the fact that it was nestled right on top of the hall of the Nightmare King.     
  
It was strange, knowing now what dwelled in the outskirts of his own hometown. He had haunted this place for three hundred years, had seen it grow and change and thrive. He had never noticed that something had taken up residence beneath it ( _some Guardian you are_ ). Had Pitch always been there? Even before Jack? Had he plagued Jack’s before-life, or did he move in after? Had Jack been so caught up in his own desperation that he missed the shadows that festered in the city itself?    
  
Jack couldn’t leave, not without confirming what was lurking in the lonely bowels of Burgess’s foundations. If anything, anyone, was down there at all.   The adrenaline of victory had numbed the shock of how quickly the Nightmares turned on their keeper. As that thrill ebbed, he had been plagued by the sounds of terror that rang sharp in his ears as Pitch was devoured by his own kine.  
  
 It wasn’t that Jack didn’t think Pitch deserved it, he did. The thought of a world ruled by fear, a world where no child was innocent, it broke his heart. It was something he could never have abided, much less supported. It had to be stopped. But the Guardians did more than that. They defeated the Fear, they protected Childhood. And then they took the humbled Pitch and offered him no quarter. They threw him to the wolves (Nightmares). And there was no reason for it but spite.  
  
  What did that say about the Guardians of Childhood? What did that say about him?  
  
  It didn’t sit well with him, knowing that they had done the very thing they had set out to stop. Not the saving children thing. Yeah, they had done that too, but... doing it at the expense of another spirit. Who were they really saving? The kids or themselves? Who was he saving?  
  
_If enough kids stop believing, everything you protect goes away. And little by little, so do you._

 

* * *

 

The bed was still there, looking as innocuous and out of place as he remembered. He had to scoff, the twist of apprehension that had been building in his shoulders was totally uncalled for. There were no shadows, no ominous hell-groans, no sulfur smells, no untoward drafts beckoning him in. It just looked like a bed some punk teenager dragged out here to get frisky on, away from the eyes of prying parents. He almost felt let down, it had seemed a lot scarier a few weeks ago.     
  
Jack scoffed at himself, pushing the thought to the back of his mind. He shoved the frame out of the way with a bare foot, balancing on his crook for counter-weight. The old thing creaked and moaned, but didn’t protest, and he was able to slide down into the dark without incident.   
  
 The place was... empty. Straight up abandoned. Not even the aura of fear remained. It was just a hollow shell. He remembered labyrinthine hallways, paths and doors shifting in the corner of his vision, vertigo inducing shifts in the floor, and an oppressive darkness that tugged at his hair. There was none of that. It was just a hallway. He could even see light ahead, where the passage opened up into something more expansive...    
  
“Ow-shit!” Jack nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt something grab his bare foot. He threw himself against the wall, whipping his crook in front of him wildly. It took him a moment to realize that whatever it was, wasn’t moving. He looked down.  
  
  It was a gold chain, twisted delicately between his toes. A small locket, well worn and scuffed with dirt was attached, wrapped around his ankle from the momentum of his. Uh. Awesome battle maneuver.

He shook it off of his foot and it skipped against the rough hewn floor with a light tinkling noise. When he reached down to actually pick it up, Jack realized that that what he had thought was dirt was actually Nightmare Sand. Each little grain felt like a tiny cut against his fingers. He grimaced, vigorously rubbing it against his hoodie in an attempt to dislodge the nasty stuff, but it refused to wipe clean. He pocketed the thing, figuring he’ll deal with it later.     
  
Even though the feeling of impending doom no longer permeated the very pores of the tunnel, he could vividly remember the...visceral, reptilian terror that once lingered. He pitied the poor fucker that lost the locket down here. Maybe Toothiana would be able to search her collection and figure out who it belonged to.  
   
In the dim light, Jack could barely make out something moving ahead in the cavern. He tensed, preparing for the worst. But no sounds came of it, and nothing more malevolent than the locket jumped out at him. As he approached, the smudge of movement coalesced into the form of a horse. _Massive_. Bigger than any Nightmare he had ever seen, and panic welled up in his throat like a trapped bird.     
  
He debated turning back right then and there. He had confirmed that there was still something down here, that didn’t mean he had to deal with it, right? ...Right?

Jack groaned inwardly, tightening his grip on his crook and pushing forward. Hell, he’d never live it down if he turned tail now. He’d stood up to Pitch before, he could do it now. The Nightmare gave him the heebie-jeebies, but. Whatever, he was a badass, he could deal with it.  
  
  The Nightmare didn’t move. It just stood there, staring at him as he hesitantly approached. The cavern was the same, and yet... less than it had been before. Tired old cages swayed lazily in the cross breeze. The great globe remained, but an angry dark scar mutilated the piece of metal that had once represented Asia. Light shown in from fractures in the rock face that he didn’t recall noticing on his last visit, and dust particles made valiant impressions of little fairies dancing through the air as they passed through the rays.  
  
  The Nightmare snorted, startling him back to attention. It tossed it’s head and pawed a dark, misty hoof against the blacken floor. It’s ears were pinned, but it didn’t move. Jack realized that it stood above a body and the fluttering bird of nerves in his throat turned to stone and plummeted to his stomach. What had Pitch done? Had he really resorted to killing?     
  
Jack ran to the prone form, whipping his crook in front of him and carving a massive wave of ice between the Nightmare and it’s prey.  
  
  He stopped, abruptly, a few short steps from the body.  
  
From Pitch’s body.  
  
There were no shadows. The robe that had swathed him in darkness was just a mundane overcoat. It had coattails. It had cuffs. He laughed. He wasn’t sure why. But the fact that Pitch wore actual clothes was absurdly hilarious, for some irrational, semi-hysterical, reason.     
  
Pitch didn’t stir at the noise, and the laugh fell uncomfortably from Jack’s lips. “Hey. Uh. Rough night there, big guy?” He asked (not) hopefully.    
  
Pitch’s face was gaunt, and while it had been colorless before, it had been dark. Now his complexion was more ash than coal. His eyes were open but did not see. Any hint of color was gone from them, a milky haze blurring the borders between pupil and iris and sclera.  
  
  Shit.  
  
  Jack grimaced resentfully, hesitantly reaching out with his crook to nudge Pitch in the shoulder. “Okay, so if you’re going to jump out and yell ‘BOO’, now would be a great time...” When he got no response he poked again, harder.     
  
He made a small noise of discontent, dancing nervously in place as he weighed the wisdom of running to North and asking for help against the oppressive embarrassment of... running to North and asking for help.     
  
He crouched down onto the balls of his feet, waving a hand in front of sightless eyes. Nothing. Not like he’d really expected anything else. “Come on, Sleepy Bear, wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.” He bit his lip, hand hovering mere inches away from a face that shouldn’t... just.

It was pathetic. For all that Pitch was, Jack never, in his wildest dreams, entertained the possibility that he was fallible, that it was possible for him to be... for him to be lying here. Limp, lifeless. Like a rag doll that was used up and cast aside. And the guilt gnawed at him, doubt forcing him to dwell on the possibility that it was Jack’s own damn fault.    
  
“Pitch.” Jack cleared his throat and said again, louder, “Pitch Bl-” He had been so focused on the body that he had lost track of the Nightmare. Suddenly a breath, close and, heavy and _cold_ curled into the hair at the base of his neck. He lost his balance and lurched forward, hands grasping at whatever they could fo---  

   
_She is twirling, effortless, shod with wicked blades, dancing on a sea of glass. Her laughter is just as you remember it, bright and full of starlight. Her scarf is the same deep blue as her mother’s eyes, impossibly dark--like midnight._  
  
_No. That’s wrong. Her dress is red and brown. You think it’s too short for skating. It does not protect her ankles from the cold._  
  
_It was cold? It was cold, it was winter. Under the sparking glass you can see the Fearlings swarming, writhing over one another, their greedy little claws scraping, screaming, making your ears ring._  
  
_The glass is cracking. Her eyes widen and for a moment, the two of you are frozen, waiting. Listening._  
  
_The Fearlings are relentless. They will take her, the glass cannot stop them. She needs your help. You must save her. She can never know fear like you have._  
  
_You laugh. She laughs. She doesn’t understand. You reach out with your crook and she reaches out with her hand, barely taking hold with her delicate, pale, perfect fingers. You pull and she slides back towards the galleon._  
  
_You let out a sigh of relief, but it’s too soon. She looks down at her hands as they pool red, red like the hem of her dress. She looks up at you, and her eyes are wide, betrayed. You drop your scythe back to your side and the ice breaks beneath you, plunging you into the churning water.  The frigid cold hits you like a punch to the gut and the air is knocked from your lungs. You open your mouth to breathe and the Fearlings rush in. And they **scream**. The scream is her voice. _  
  
_You sister’s voice._  
  
_You sink into the cold darkness._

  
  Jack jerked his hand back like it had been bitten. His head was swimming, and his legs didn’t want to listen to him. And oh god, Pitch was right there, looking all pallid and frail and and Jack had touched him. Jack groaned as he was hit with the sudden urge to vomit.     
  
The glutted Nightmare was looking down at him, curious. When he met it’s glowing gaze, he couldn’t help it, his stomach clenched in a painful spasm. But there was nothing but melted snow inside him, and nothing but melted snow came out. It spattered across Pitch’s chest. The wetted fabric was the darkest color on the prone body.    
  
 The spell was broken and Jack’s feet could again move. He swung his crook wide, bathing the room in sharp, bright crystals of ice and scrambled to his feet. The Nightmare looked on, non-plussed. It shook the shimmering frost from it’s mane and didn’t even wait for Jack to leave the room before it turned it’s attention back to the lifeless form on the ground.  
  
  Jack ran. He ran far and he ran hard, and he didn’t stop until night was upon him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update, I had a dickens of a time deciding where to end this silly chapter. >:( 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: underage drug use, underage gang affiliation, general depictions of poverty, sports injuries, carnivore related violence and blood, and one very lucky iguana. 
> 
> In most cases, I've opted to translate Spanish into English, but there are a few places where I felt a translation wouldn't be effective. So there are some notes on translations/cultural references at the end. If there's something you'd like me to elaborate on further please don't hesitate to ask! :)
> 
> Still unbeta'd. Also I apologize for any formatting errors, my computer is dying. So feel free to point out any oopsies!

* * *

_“You got to understand the god thing. It’s not magic. It’s about being you, but the you that people believe in. It’s about being the concentrated, magnified, essence of you. It’s about becoming thunder, or the power of a running horse, or wisdom. You take all the belief and become bigger, cooler, more than human. You crystallize.” He paused. “And then one day they forget about you, and they don’t believe in you, and they don’t sacrifice, and they don’t care, and the next thing you know you’re running a three-card monte game on the corner of Broadway and Forty-third.”_  
-Neil Gaiman, _American Gods_  


* * *

  
Jack was somewhere in the vast stretch of tropics between Cuba and the Panamá Canal, and that was about the extent of his knowledge. He had first landed half a day’s walk north of here when the sting of urban smog had burned his lungs and his eyes and he could fly no more. His feet led him to a dilapidated basketball court. It had a home-made skate park assembled in the middle of it. He had been drawn here by the sound of children laughing.  Now he was perched on a bike rack, legs swinging between the bars. There were five boys on the court, none of them had hit puberty yet. Three of the boys were passing around a discolored plastic bag, taking turns burying their faces in it. The other two, who looked to be both the oldest and the youngest of the group, were arguing over who’s turn it was to use the lone skateboard between them.  
  
The larger of the two boys shoved the smaller in the chest. He yanked on the board at the same time and the little boy fell hard on the ground. Jack winced in sympathy. Triumphant, the older one pushed off in the direction of the half pipe (which was more like a 5/16ths pipe, but Jack wasn’t one to judge). The younger boy pouted on the ground, watching the victor as he practiced stalling on the ramp.    
  
Eventually the little boy pushed himself to his feet and jogged towards Jack.  Jack waved in greeting even though he didn’t expect a reaction.  Unsurprisingly he got none, but the boy did pull himself up on the rack next to Jack so he could watch without sitting on the ground.    “Hey, bud!”  Jack said. “You alright? That was a pretty rough fall.”  
  
  No response. The little boy shouted obscenities at the kid on the ramp instead.  
  
“He your brother?” Jack asked. The two bore more than a passing resemblance, but more than that, they wore matching Randy Moss Raiders jerseys.    
  
The kid continued to ignore him, because he was, you know, invisible. The three baggers had wandered over to the boy on the skateboard, and were making animated gestures and encouraging him to ‘stop being such a pussy and show us a real trick’.  He had stopped on the flat and was holding the skateboard flat against his chest as a barrier between himself and the other boys.  After a few moments of argument, one of the boys snatched the board and dashed off to the stack of oil drums that served as a ladder to the pipe. The youngest, sitting next to Jack, snorted in laughter. When the affronted boy scowled in their direction, Jack’s bench-mate flashed him a defiant _corte de mangas_.   
  
It looked like there was going to be a fight, the elder boy was stomping towards the bike rack with a fist itching for something to hit, and the littlest, snarkiest target looked like a mighty fine outlet for his humiliation.   
  
  Jack was preparing for the worst, imagining slicks of ice and cold blasts of wind to the face, but even as the boy on the bike rack jumped down to meet his aggressor, they were interrupted by a loud exclamation of pain, and a chorus of jeering laughter.   
  
  Jack and the two boys looked back towards the half pipe where one boy was sprawled on the ground and the other two were crowded around him. The lone skateboard was rolling across the court until it clattered to a half into the chain link fence.      
  
The two Raiders boys ran over to their fallen companion where they were enveloped into the circle of gawkers. Jack padded along behind them, more slowly, lingering farther behind. They were murmuring amongst themselves about a bloody nose, about a busted up mouth, about how fucking _badass_ that looked.   
  
  Jack had missed the trick, whatever it was. The boy on the ground was pushing himself up into a sit. None of the other kids offered to help. He had blood all over his face, it was hard to tell where it was all flowing from. But the boys seemed to have made an accurate enough assessment that both his nose and mouth were indeed, quite busted up.      
  
In Burgess he could have helped, Jack thought grimly. At home he could offer a snow ball as a balm. His wind could steady those teetering legs as they struggled to hold the pre-teen weight.  But here he didn’t exist. Here he was just one of the boys watching and waiting to see if he would right himself on his own.     
  
 He did. Eventually. He spit a mouthful of blood on the ground and smeared at the mess on his face with his forearm, but he managed to right himself no thanks to the group of boys leering at him through the struggle.   
  
  “Go get the board, jackass.” The oldest shoved the bloodied boy in the direction of the skateboard. They were done here, it seemed. At least, the big kid was. The others voiced no complaint, not even the young one, the one that he had been thirty seconds from punching out.    The whole gaggle of them made their way to the single unlocked gate. The bloody-faced boy intercepted them halfway to the exit. Jack watched them go, knowing it was pointless to follow.      
  
They chattered their way into the murmur of the city and in the blink of an eye, they were gone. Jack sighed and lifted his face to the sun. There was little breeze here, the air was humid and heavy and so full of grime he could almost see it. This was a place that did not know winter, and never would. It was a place that he did not belong. ( _But then again, where do you belong Jack?_ )  
  
He opened his eyes, waiting for the light to burn holes in his retinas (he had heard it would do that, somewhere. He forgot from whom.) But it never did. It just gave him a searing headache that forced him to look away. Fairy lights danced in front of his eyes and made his head swim.   
  
  He noticed the spatter of blood staining the particle board. Noticed the tooth in it.    
  
_You never told them where you were going, idiot_. The whole point of checking on... On Burgess, was to make sure everyone would be safe while he was gone. Everyone will be, but Him. Jack had never even bothered to give the other Guardian’s a heads-up. The opportunity to amend that situation was sitting before him. In all it’s nasty, gummy glory.    
  
He’d seen worse, but plucking the chipped incisor out of the gooey mess still had him gagging. He swaddled it in an icy shell if only so he didn’t have to touch the thing.

* * *

Jack didn’t have a pillow. He wasn’t sure if this would be a problem. Do Tooth Fairies care if you use something else? Or is the pillow, like, part of the ritual? He debated using his hoodie, balling it up into a pillow-esque lump and hoping for the best. Then he considered nicking a sheet off of a clothes line. It was a step in the right direction at least? Right?   
  
  In the end, (and against his better judgement), he opted to steal into the room of a beleaguered night-shift worker. The man was clad in the beige-brown uniform of a parcel delivery man. His outfit was rumpled, like it needed a good starching.    
  
There were no stars through the smog, but the moon was high and bright when the man locked his door knob, his dead bolt, and his security door and pulled open the barred gate which protected him from the city beyond. The man drove off into the darkness while Jack, invisible, watched from the upstairs windowsill.      
  
Jack had picked the man for his frumpy uniform. Or rather, Jack had picked the man for what his frumpy uniform implied. He left no woman behind in bed when he slipped out for his late shift. The apartment was barren of other occupants and Jack could wait without fear of disruption.     
  
It wasn’t a big bedroom. In fact, it was more of a bed-living-kitchenette-room, but it had a bed, and that bed had a pillow. That was good enough for Jack.   


* * *

The idea of waiting for a Fairy to show up seemed like a straight forward one at first. It even seemed straight forward for a solid ten minutes, but as the minutes stretched into hours Jack’s feet began to itch and his fingers ached and the walls began to feel as though they were closing in around him. This would never work. He was sitting on some guy’s bed in the middle of no where, because he wanted a pillow, so that he could catch a tooth fairy with a tooth that wasn’t even his. What the hell?      
  
He pretended not to be overjoyed when the faint squeak of Baby Tooth broke him from his internal monologue. Baby Tooth was either a more accomplished actor than Jack, or she was really not overjoyed to see him.    
  
Baby Tooth slumped into a miserable, heavy landing. She held a map tightly in her hands and her crown feather was wilted against the crown of her head. When she recognized Jack, her feather sprang to attention and she flitted to him faster than he could even say ‘hello’. She proceeded to bat him over the head with her map in a woefully ineffective lashing.   
  
  Jack laughed and scooped her into his hands. He blew a little flurry of cool air at her, and she squeaked in approval when a snowflake landed on her beak. Mollified, Baby Tooth laid the map out in front of her, and pointed to a bright red ‘X’, twirring out a sound of confusion as she looked from the map to Jack and back again.      
  
“Yeah, uh.  That was me.”  Jack admitted.    
  
Baby Tooth scowled, jabbing angrily at the map and then pointing to her own mouth in demonstration.  
  
  “No! I have the tooth. It’s just not mine!”  Jack shifted her in his palms so that she rested comfortably in one hand. He reached under the pillow and produced the chipped tooth to the Fairy.   
  
She looked confused, somewhat sad and ultimately accepted the tooth from his pinched fingers with a reverence that Jack hadn’t expected. But then he considered the map. Maybe Tooth didn’t have much business in this part of town. What if this was the first tooth they had collected from that boy? What if it was the last?   
  
  “Um...Hey, listen. I need a favor Baby Tooth.”    
  
She looked up at him, eyes narrowed. She tucked the tooth away before crossing an arm over her chest, gesturing him to continue with the other.      
  
“Could you tell Tooth that I’m going to be gone for awhile?”    
  
Baby Tooth squealed, her feathers caught the gleam of the moon as they fluffed in alarm.  
  
  “I’m fine! I’m fine. It’s nothing bad.” Jack scratched beneath Baby Tooth’s chin and eventually she deflated. Her face remained set in a deep scowl.  
  
  “I’m just going down south for the summer, okay? I just. I need some air.”  
  
  Baby Tooth gurgled back a sob and threw her tiny hands around Jack’s thumb.  
  
  “Hey!  None of that now, I’ll be back!  It’s just for the summer.”  Jack lifted his captive thumb to his face, close enough that he could bow forward to place a gentle kiss on the top of Baby Tooth’s head. She peeped in swooning approval and hopped back into the palm of his hand. She picked up her map and peered up at him expectantly. Waiting for her instructions.   
  
“IJust let Tooth and the others know I’m okay? I’ll be back quicker than you can say ‘Pumpkin Spice Latte’!”     
  
Baby Tooth attempted to say ‘Pumpkin Spice Latte’, but it sounded more like ‘Dunnkin Ssteee Laalee’.  She looked up at him in dismay.  Jack just laughed.    
  
“I’ll be back soon, Baby Tooth.  That’s a promise.”      
  
Baby Tooth flitted from his hand and hovered in front of his face, considering.  After a moment, she buzzed in, close enough that he could feel the tickle of wind from her wings.  She kissed him gently on the nose.  Jack tried his hardest to ignore the beak poking him in the eye.    She pulled away, and saluted with her map.  “Dunkin Stee Lalee!”  She reminded, pointing the map in Jack’s direction with one more waggle of warning.  Then she was gone, out the window and flying back home. Jack was again alone.  
  
  His business was completed and he had no reason to continue squatting in the delivery man’s bedroom.  It was stuffy, oppressive and human, everything that Jack wasn’t.  He spent a few moments surveying the room to confirm he hadn’t disturbed anything before leaping from the window and letting the wind whisk him away.  He needed a rooftop.  He needed the sky.   
  
He needed to sleep.     


* * *

  
_The brightness is chattering, nagging, little words, pointless words. They wash over you like bits of dust whisked up in the wind, pelting you with their light. You hiss. Don’t they know it’s pointless? Pointless! You are unstoppable. You are all powerful. You are everywhere the light shines, the greater they become the greater you become. You are unstoppable.  Unstoppable._  
  
_You cannot even stop yourself._  
  
_There is a baby. Shining, beautiful and bright, brighter than all of those nattering lights that swirl around him. And you need him. Go. Go. Go. Get him, consume him. Make him yours.  Imagine the beautiful darkness that such a light could cast._  
  
_They want you overboard. You are dimly aware of their struggle, of the lurch of the boat, but cannot bring yourself to care._  
  
_The brightness screams at you. Words of light and hope and peace and meaning absolutely nothing in your ears. You see the melody spewing forth from those wretched mouths and all you can think is **silence**.    _  
  
_You strike. Ice falls all around you, crowning you, enthroning you like the king you are. The sea is crystallizing, great chunks of ice grind into the boat, moaning like old, tired bones. Soon the ship will run aground and all will be still._  
  
_You hear someone call your name and so you turn. You see a mirror, and yet it is not. You stand before yourself, holding in your hands a child, a baby. A boy. The face looks familiar. So, so familiar, but the light obscures his features. You ask yourself if this is what you want._  
  
_You do. Oh. How you yearn for that light. To hold it close. To make it yours. You reach out, but your hand passes through like a memory. Like all of those days, waiting for your sister to see you. Your parents. They dug your grave while you screamed. They wept and you froze their tears to their cheeks. They moved on, they grew up and they grew old._  
  
_You watched as their children, and their children’s children dug more graves next to your own. they wept and you froze their tears to their cheeks._  
  
_You need someone to believe in you. To remember you. You strike out at yourself in anger. Gleaming shards of ice shatter against the hull of the ship as the mirror breaks. One pierces the light. You look at yourself looking down at the boy who’s face it too light to see._  
  
_As his life and his light dims, he looks up into your eyes, and you look down into his._  
  
_Jamie sees you. He who had once been your first believer fades away. You weep, and the tears freeze to your cheeks._  


* * *

A loud crash and angry words stirred Jack from his sleep. Fitful dreams clung to him like cobwebs and there was a buzzing in his brain that he couldn’t shake. The scrambling of claws over metal continued below him, and more furious shouts followed which he recognized as being in Spanish, but was too sleep-drunk to identify.  He rolled over onto his belly, crawling across the roof to peer below.  There was a man, covered in sweat and grease and hair, wearing a dingy shirt that covered him in all the wrong places.  There was also a... er...  Thing?  It looked like a cross between one of those nasty hairless cats and a dead dog that had been baking in the sun for a few days, something bright green was writhing in it’s mouth and the man was making a valiant effort to throw pretty much everything but the kitchen sink at the beast.      
  
It was backed into a corner, Jack realized after a moment.  The metal crash that woke him was the tumbling of a pile of rusted garbage cans, no doubt which fell when the creature had attempted to vault from them to safety.  He wasn’t sure who to pity more, the disgruntled chef or the trapped gremlin-thing.  Eventually he decided that whatever it was that was thrashing in the gremlin-thing’s mouth probably has it worst off.      
  
The enraged cook had run out of projectiles in his apron and grabbed a beer bottle from the debris on the ground.  It hit it’s mark and the gremlin-thing shrieked,  the green-thing scurried away.    
  
Jack swung his legs over the edge of the roof, but before he could drop down to get a better look, the gremlin stared straight at him. Not through him, at him.   
  
  “Hey, gringo!  Gimme a hand here!”  It called in Spanish, with a voice that should not be coming out of a body like that. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the chef froze, mid-squat-for-more-ammo, and stared in his direction too.  
  
  Jack looked over his shoulder. Because totally, they must be looking at some other gringo sitting on top of the roof.    
  
It soon became apparent that only the gremlin beast actually saw him.  When it insulted Jack’s intelligence and his mother’s fidelity, the chef looked like he was about ready to piss himself, and it wasn’t because the creature from the black lagoon was talking, it was because he couldn’t figure out what it was talking _to_.    
  
Jack laughed at the poor sod, doubling over in a fit of hysterical giggles. This in turn elicited more irate obscenities from the gremlin. This in turn, elicited an even more hysterical caricature of horror from the man, who seemed torn between strangling the creature and running for his life.  Jack made the decision easier for him, unable to stop himself from throwing a big, fat sloppy snow ball right at that greasy face.  
  
  The chef crossed himself with a cry, taking a few unsteady steps backwards before turning and running full tilt back in the direction the chase had started. The gremlin watched him go, not bothering to act unsurprised at the sudden departure.   
  
  There was silence for a few moments before the beast sighed, “There goes lunch.”  It sniffed at the slice in it’s shoulder from the beer bottle.  Jack slid off of the roof, hovering a few inches off of the ground before landing softly on his feet.    
  
 It only took a few steps towards the creature before the smell hit Jack like a brick wall.  Rot, a sickly, hot, sticky smell that made him want to retch.  The creature snorted, spitting a shard of glass onto the ground that it must have pulled from the wound.  “I know, sexy, right?”  It asked, scowling at him with crusty yellow eyes.      
  
Jack scuffed his foot on the ground, unwilling to verbally confirm what he’d already been called out on.  “What, uh.” God, the smell was _terrible_ , and the wound on it’s shoulder wasn’t the only thing oozing.  And just.  Ugh, “What’s wrong.  With you?”  It wasn’t that his Spanish was bad, he just really sucked at beating around the bush.    
  
The beast laughed, threw it’s naked head back in a great cackle.  The noise was shrill and wild, and made Jack antsy, gave him the feeling that something was about to happen just listening to it. It continued on, hysterical and manic, for some time until the laughter devolved into a frothy cough. Finally it stopped, wiping sputum from it’s lips with a scabby paw.  “Absolutely nothing.”  It assured, standing and shaking off like a dog would.  “I’m exactly as right as I’ve always been.”   
  
  The cryptic answer only managed to make Jack feel as though he was on the edge of a precipice.  “What are you?”     
  
The creature smirked, which was odd, because it had a muzzle for a mouth, but it’s crusty animal face _definitely_ smirked.   It stood up on it’s hind legs and hopped towards him.  Hopped, like a kangaroo.  “I was a coyote once.  A trickster like you.  Then I became something more.  Or something less,”  it paused, frowning, “I haven’t decided yet.”   
  
_Like you._ Jack suppressed the urge to step backwards as the creature approached, the apparent familiarity freezing him to the spot as he contemplated the implications. Maybe the thing was just going off of his snowball schtick. It’s not like it could actually know who he was.  It was fishing.    
  
 Any hope of that was dashed when a skeletal finger jabbed at his stomach.  The overgrown claw was curled under and Jack could see dark red stains that discolored all the way up to the third knuckle.  His stomach flipped heavily in his gut.  “Yeah, I know you _Frost_.  Everyone knows who _you_ are.”  It bared it’s teeth at him and the tight grey skin of it’s maw cracked and oozed with the motion.     
  
Jack grimaced, lifting his hand to brush the paw aside, but couldn’t bring himself to touch it even so much as to move it farther away. He stepped back instead. “I’m nobody.  How could you _possibly_ know who I am?”     
  
It didn’t so much lose it’s balance when Jack moved, as lower itself to the ground. Rather than respond to him outright, it turned, trotting down the alley with purpose.  Jack frowned when he noticed the thing’s tail. It was grey and scaly and utterly devoid of hair except for a scrappy beige tuft about halfway up, sticking out at an odd angle.   
  
  It looked over it’s shoulder at him, expectant. “If you wanna know what I know you’re gonna want to follow me.”  It said, turning back and continuing along without so much as hesitating for an answer.  Jack sighed (his better judgement was a quiet, passive creature which had given up on fighting with him for this trip). After only a moment’s pause he followed along behind the beast.   


* * *

The two of them weaved through the dirt paved alleyways without incident.  Jack could almost forget the smell of sickness amidst the smell of sewage.  Many of the houses were sheets of aluminum roughly soldered together into the vague shape of a square, the only decoration was the spray painted tags of Mara Dieciocho and base drawings of genitalia. There was no electricity in this barrio and eventually they passed by a communal fire where a number of mothers were tending to a pot full of boiling red beans and yucca.  Unwashed children with few clothes and fewer shoes between them squabbled over who got the first tostones.   
  
  Jack would have stopped, wanted to stop. Wanted to sweep each little child up in his arms and tell them a story, make them forget the world for a few fleeting moments. But the creature didn’t pause at the small gathering, and Jack had to jog to keep up with it.    
  
No one at the fire saw either of them anyway.  
  
They continued on through the labyrinthine streets of the shanty town until the sun was high in the sky and Jack was almost sure the creature had forgotten that he was even following it.  “Hey, um,”  He realized that he still had no idea what the thing’s name was.    
  
 It stopped and turned to face him, sitting primly on it’s haunches.      
  
“Where’re we going?”  Jack finished.  For some reason he got the feeling that the answer to that question would be more helpful than finding out whom exactly it was that he was following.   
  
  It bared it’s teeth in a broad smile, “You dunno know where you are, and yet you ask where you’re going?”   
  
  Never mind.  Jack thought dismally as the creature turned away and continue on it’s course.  That wasn’t helpful in the slightest.  “Touché,” he grumbled, “Fine, where am I?”  
  
 “Tegus!”  It called back   
  
This was going to be a _looong_ day.  Or not... It didn’t have to be, Jack reminded himself.  He could just fly away and pretend he never met this weird, nasty little creature.  But that intangible, inexplicable not quite fate feeling still prodded at the back of his mind and it wasn’t like he had somewhere important he had to be.  “Great, Tegus.”  Like he had any idea where _that_ was.  “So where are we heading?”  
  
The creature laughed and broke into a run, forcing Jack to pull on the wind’s gentle favor to keep up.  “I don’t know!” it exclaimed, and it’s voice danced in the wind and tickled Jack’s toes.      
  
Jack skidded to a halt, “You don’t _know_?!”  
  
The creature didn’t slow, instead it wheeled around a shanty quickly enough that it’s back end collided with the rusty wall.  The metallic thunk rang in Jack’s ears and he could hear shouting from inside the home.     
  
 Two bony paws shoved at the small of Jack’s back, and he stumbled forward.  “It’s your answer we’re looking for, not mine!”  The creature shouldered past Jack and skipped backwards on it’s hind feet so that it could maintain eye contact.      
  
“What are you even talking about?” Jack asked, crossing his arms across his chest.  Ditching this whacko was sounding more desirable by the minute.  
  
“Oh my god,” It groaned, a deep bellyaching complaint that didn’t quite seem to fit inside it’s emaciated body.  “How did a stupid snowflake like you ever best the Coco?  Seriously.”  It dropped again to all fours, and skulked off, “If you don’t want me to get you lost, you can go find yourself on your own.”  
  
  He was.  He was going to go fucking find himself on his own, because what the hell did this little scrap of roadkill know about him that he didn’t?  Nothing.  That’s what.  And he did _not_ care about finding out what this coco-bean-whatever was.  He wasn’t going to ask, because this thing was insane.  
  
He wasn’t going to ask.  
  
He wasn’t.  
  
Damn it.  
  
“Wait up!”  He called, jogging around the corner that the creature had now disappeared behind twice.  He found nothing. There was a stray dog, belly heavy with puppies, sprawled out in the sun and more pallet-homes piled one on top of the other.  In the distance was a great refuse pile and Jack could only just make out the movement of impoverished children shuffling through the debris for things to sell.  But no gremlin.   
  
  He signed.  _Typical.  This is why you can’t have nice things, Jack._  
  
He had no idea how he had gotten here, or if it was even worth attempting to retracing his steps, so he continued towards the dump site.  When he passed the dog,  he could have sworn he heard her humming.  He had to do a double take, but when he inspected her more closely, she was just a scrappy street dog.  Sound asleep.  She was wheezing a little bit, from the strain on her belly, but that was the extent of her activity.  He hmphed, and continued on.  


* * *

Jack had grossly misjudged the distance to the trash heap. It’s massive size had given him the impression that it was far closer than it actually was, and the sun was no longer at it’s apogee when he finally arrived. Most of the children had disappeared back into the barrio for the evening, but there were still a few stragglers. Most were far to young to be out alone, too young to be sifting through metal and feces and death just to get by.      
  
A little girl caught his attention. She was four, maybe five years old, and had a large satchel full of plastic bottles on her back. Next to her was a goat, tethered by the horn to a thin piece of twine. The goat was loaded with a pack saddle stuffed to the brim with more plastic.      
  
The girl was tugging on the line but the goat locked it’s legs and refused to move. It had found something worth ingesting in the cornucopia of waste and would not abandon it until it was done. The girl flopped onto the ground, snuffling back tears of frustration. An empty aerosol can was dislodged from the heap and rolled away. Jack lowered himself beside her, cooing gentle words of comfort.      
  
Even though she could neither see nor hear Jack, she seemed calmed by his company and so the two of them sat together, waiting for the goat to finish it’s improvised dinner. Jack rambled with about nothing in particular. He told her stories of his home in Pennsylvania, of his whirlwind adventure with the Guardians, of Pitch. How it felt to be alone.  
  
  He almost didn’t notice it at first, the light melody carrying on the wind.  As it got nearer, it he could no longer ignore it, and he got the strange impression that he had heard it before.  Even more strangely, neither the goat nor the girl seemed to hear it.    
  
The pregnant dog appeared from behind a pile of tires and stared at him with wizened eyes.  He realized that it was the same song that he thought he had heard from her earlier in the afternoon,  but didn’t recognize it as being a song that he knew.      
  
The goat looked at him too.  It started humming the same, strange familiar tune and still the little girl did not react.  Jack pushed himself to his feet and stumbled backward, away from the humming animals.  As soon as he moved the little girl spoke, nothing moving but her dry chapped lips.    
  
“ _Señora Santa Ana, Señor San Joaquín, quieten this little child who wants to go to sleep_.”  The little girl’s voice wavered, like she was still on the verge of tears. Jack’s heart broke and he was torn between reaching out for the girl he could not touch, and leaving these weird as shit animals as far behind him as possible.  “ _Sleep, sleep little child_ ,” the girl continued, “ _because the Coco is coming_...”  
  
  That was the same name the creature had mentioned, Jack realized.  “ _And he might just eat you up_!”  
  
The movement was a blur.  The little girl dripped her bottles and lunged at Jack, grubby fingers outstretched.  At the same time, the bloated dog jumped on the goat and plunged her teeth into it’s neck.  Jack flinched, his hands jerking up to protect his face, but the child passed right through him.    
  
When Jack spun around to find her, she was no where to be seen.  Behind him he heard a familiar gurgling laugh.  He turned again and the goat was on the ground, it’s throat torn open.  The dog was gone, but a familiar hairless cat cum roadkill stood in it’s place.  It’s maw was smeared dark with blood and grinning wide.    
  
“Feeling lost yet, gringo?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corte de mangas: An offensive gesture similar in implication to flipping the bird.  
> Gringo: A slang term referring to a non-Spanish individual.  
> Mara Dieciocho: 18th Street, a vicious and violent Latin street gang known for recruiting children.  
> Tostones: Fried plantains, a popular snack food.  
> Tegus: Short for Tegucigalpa, Honduras  
> El Coco: Latin American Boogeyman  
> Nana del Coco: The original (or one of the original) Spanish version of the song "Señora Santa Ana, Señor San Joaquín, arrulla es niño que quiere dormir. Duérmete niñito, duérmete nomás que hay viene el Coco y te comerá." I've taken a little bit of liberty with the translation so that it flows a bit better in English.

**Author's Note:**

> My outline tentatively has the main story lasting 14-ish Chapters, I haven't decided if tangents would be detracting or if I want some downtime between dramallama action! So that may end up being more. May end up being less. We'll find out.


End file.
